


dreams are made of the flesh

by Cakerolls



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-21
Updated: 2014-08-21
Packaged: 2018-02-13 16:02:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2156658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cakerolls/pseuds/Cakerolls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr Lecter does not blink, only tilts his head. “I want you to be aware of yourself when you kill me.”<br/> <br/>“To make sure it is I who end your life, and not some psychopath’s skin that I’ve donned to fill the role?”<br/> <br/>“To be in control,” Dr Lecter answers.</p><p>--</p><p>Somewhere between getting out of the asylum and Tier does Will finally understand what he needs to do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	dreams are made of the flesh

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place in the middles of season two, after Will leaves the asylum.
> 
> There are so many things I could be apologizing for with regards to this fic so anything you find offensive/unsatisfactory, please attach my apologies to it.
> 
> And for the love of all things angsty I can't do tags, so if you think something should be tagged, do tell.

Will is dreaming.

Awareness of his state flickers briefly in his mind, but he is conscious of it all the same. He knows how to be aware of reality now, thanks to his experience, as unwilling as it was.

Perhaps he should thank Dr Lecter. The corners of his mouth lift in a grimace of a grin.

The stag facing him stares back, its eyes dark. Its horns grow upwards, towering and overshadowing, like a twisted version of a tree. Will _sees_.

Will opens his eyes.

**

Dr Lecter’s office is pristine, temperature perfectly conditioned, houseplants immaculately manicured. All the same, Will feels suffocated. He shoves it down, because he has more control now, control over his own untarnished mind, control over his limbs. He will not be victim to another induced seizure.

 The stag statue on the pedestal stares at him mockingly.

Will leans back on his seat and the stag is replaced by Dr Lecter.

“Have you felt visceral rage, Will?” The doctor asks, voice thick with an European accent Will has yet to identify, sounding somewhere around an aristocratic lisp, the kind that attracts the listener’s gaze to the speaker’s mouth.

He does not ask what it is, nor does he look at Dr Lecter’s lips. Lips tell lies; eyes do not. Will meets Dr Lecter’s gaze, unhindered by the frames of his glasses.

“Visceral, yes, perhaps. I feel _visceral_ at the scene of a crime, when I step into the murderer’s shoes,” he says instead.

“ _Your_ rage?”

“Does it matter?”

“It is always important to separate yourself from others. You must be aware of your own emotions.”

“Mixing emotions would not be _pure_ ,” Will mocks.

Dr Lecter does not blink, only tilts his head. “I want you to be aware of yourself when you kill me.”

“To make sure it is I who end your life, and not some psychopath’s skin that I’ve donned to fill the role?”

“To be in control,” Dr Lecter answers.

**

The day is cold, but that has never hindered the FBI from doing their job. Nor has the weather ever affected a murderer’s goals, though that point can be argued.

Will blinks, the snowflakes on his eyelashes melting from the movement. He glances down momentarily at the pure untouched snow at his feet before stepping on it, making his way to Jack Crawford.

“One dead,” Jack says as a way of greeting, “not a lot of blood. Take a look, see what you can find.”

Will nods and takes off his glasses. From the corner of his eyes, he can see Jack retreating, waving back the closest forensics. He looks at the murder scene, and all he can see is a dead girl suspended on the horns of a stag. He blinks, and the image melts away. The body of a woman lying in the snow fills his vision.

He walks around her slowly, snow crunching under his feet. He takes into account the state of the body: clean of blood except for her left hand, dark bruises on her neck, clothes mostly unrumpled. He stops near her feet and breathes out. He closes his eyes, steps into the skin of the murderer.

 “I have followed this woman for days, stalking her as a predator would stalk its prey, judging if she is fit for me. I deem her fit. The woman does not know me, not truly, only as a passerby on the street who she may have shook hands with. That is the way I want to remain. I want her to think me as an angel of death when she dies; I want no recognition in her eyes.

“My moment draws near. I am ready; she has been ready since the day she was born. It is evening when I take action. She is lured out by the pureness of the fresh snow, and I am lured out by her. No, I am not lured; today I am the hunter.”

Will opens his eyes.

A woman wearing a dark grey pea coat walks ahead of him, unaware of his presence.  He clenches and relaxes his hands, preparing for the moment. The woman is looking towards the sky now, hands reaching out to catch the falling snow. A stag walks out from the evening’s shadows, in front of the woman. Its feathers rustle, the blackness harsh against the white flurries. The woman notices. She stops. He moves.

He’s got his hands around her neck before she can react, and it is ironic the way she grasps at his arms as if embracing him, as if they were intimate. She manages to throw him off balance. Will stumbles, regains control, and throws her to the ground before following, hands already reaching for the throat.

And then it was Dr Lecter, no, _Hannibal_ under him, gasping for breath. Will feels rage, _visceral_ rage, and he pushes the man down harder. His hands are still wrapped around the doctor’s throat, and Will squeezes tighter, tighter, tighter.

But this is not Hannibal dying at his hands. It is a woman, nameless, Jane Doe.

And it is not Will who is killing; it is a psychopath that has finally caught the FBI’s attention.

“Got anything?” Jack’s voice is loud, interruptive when it needs to be.

Will opens his eyes.

“Yes,” he says, _yes,_ his mind echoes, “I know how he killed her.” _I killed her,_ he does not say.

**

Fishing is his hobby, _was_ his hobby, is still his hobby even after being a part of the evidence that framed him. His collection shouts it to anyone who enters his home. Hannibal certainly noticed. Will supposes it means he is good at setting lures, hunting by means of false promises. He means to put it to good use, and tells Jack as much.

“You’re the bait, then,” Jack finally says, staring at Will.

Will meets his gaze, mouth set in a determined line. His hands do not fiddle with the rod in them.

“I, the catcher,” Jack concludes, before looking away. “We’ll get him this time. Tell me what you need.”

“First, let’s catch some fish,” Will says, instead of _I need the means to wear Hannibal Lecter like a second skin._

As if catching on to the thought, Jack rubs his hands together and shivers, feet stamping on the ice and snow beneath them. “Not saying I’m opposed to your hobby, but ice fishing?”

“It weathers the best hunters,” Will replies, cracking a bitter smile. His hands are still steady, as steady as his gaze which does not flinch when Jack gives him his best glare.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Will; he’s a dangerous man.”

“Hannibal is _intrigued_ by the thought that he is not alone, that I am somehow like him.”

Jack narrows his eyes. “So he’s now Hannibal; no more Dr Lecter?”

“The first step to evening out the playing field with someone more powerful than you is to bring yourself to his level. In which case, acknowledging him by his name is the least I can do.” _It’s more intimate._

“Hannibal Lecter is a threat that needs to be stopped, not powerful.”

“He’s a man with a god complex; you should treat him as such.”

“As a god?” Jack chuckles drily. “He is meant for a place far, far from Heaven.”

Will says nothing. Beneath his hands, the rod twitched, the string pulled taunt.

“And here we have our first catch. See? Patience yield results.”

Will breaks off from meeting Jack’s eyes, standing up to reel in his catch.

“I sure hope you’re right,” he hears the agent say.

Will is too busy staring at the fish as it breaks the surface of the water to reply.

**

The fish is served in a fancy concoction as decided by Hannibal Lecter. Jack is not with them today, or else Will would feel tempted to catch his gaze over the sight of the dish.

“Three fish in one week, Will,” Hannibal says, as he sets the dish down on the ludicrously decorated table. “Your talents are showing.”

Will lowers his eyes, hands playing with the utensils set by his plate as Hannibal takes a seat across from him. He picks up the fork, grips it tight, watching his knuckles go briefly white, then sets it back down where it was. His now empty hand reaches for the wine glass, lifting centimetres from his face.

“I suppose God was feeling charitable this week,” he replies, allowing the corners of his mouth to go up millimeters. Not quite a smile, no. He looks up over the rim of the glass at Hannibal.

“God does not control the results of a man’s hunt; he grants us all equal opportunity to survive.” Hannibal lifts his glass, too. He swirls it minutely, breathing in the scent.

Will mirrors his actions, eyes closing momentarily as he drew in a breath. Only then does he allow himself a sip of the wine.

“We are all his children; is he not allowed a favoured child?” he asks.

Hannibal merely smiles at him, amusement clear in his eyes. He motions to the fish ( _‘fish dish,’_ says a mocking voice in Will’s head).

“Perhaps the fish knows. But it is dead now, and our questions are not answered.”

“And so we must consume it,” mutters Will, but he picks up his utensils anyway and proceeds to carve out a piece of the dish.

**

After, when the main course dwindled to dessert, did Hannibal deem: “Tell me about your latest investigations,” a prudent conversation starter.

Will does, and leaves nothing hidden. He tells Hannibal of the previous know cases belonging to the killer, of the woman in the snow, and of what he saw through the killer’s eyes.

“A man obsessed with purity is not a man, but an infant grasping for the unattainable,” Hannibal comments, leaning back on his chair, the dessert in front of him – raspberry trifle – consumed.

Will lets himself relax and fall into the embrace of the chair. “And what,” he rasps, “would be unattainable in this case?”

“This killer wants to feel closer to his maker. He wants to please the being that created him; he wants to please God.”

Uncontrollably, Will’s eyes flickers to the side. Quietly: “Were we not made in His image?” Pauses. “Isn’t that the aspiration of every child, to please their father?”

“There is always the desire to become their creator, and perhaps to surpass their creator’s expectations.”

“But not all children are docile and willing towards their creator.”

“There are also numerous cases of the child killing their father,” Hannibal concurs, slanting his head towards Will.

Will sees the bait in its form, waits, taunting the hunter, and then goes for it.

“Are we still profiling the killer?”

Hannibal blinks at him, slowly, once, then twice, the only indicator of his surprise at Will purposely taking the bait. He stands, collecting the empty plates. “Perhaps we should save the rest for your next session. This conversation’s hardly suited for dinner.”

 _Dinner’s done,_ Will bites back. Swallows down: _you were the one who inquired after my investigations._

“Let me help.”

**

That night, Will dreams of the stag again, but the stag is now a man, its silhouette a familiar shape.

He has seen it before, in the shadows of Hannibal Lecter, its shape becoming more apparent as times passed.

It is here now, in front of him, standing in the shadows just outside the range of a nearby streetlamp. Will notices the woman for the first time. She is between them, walking through the snow, her pea coat catching the flakes as they fell through the sky. She tosses her hair back, and it is Alana Bloom.

A streak of hot panic races through Will, followed by a chill, which spreads throughout his body. He wants to stumble forward, to call out, but he is a statue, a bystander forced to watch. The stag, now man, steps in to the light. Something flashes in his hand, and Alana is on the ground, the snow turning a vibrant red. There was no sound.

It feels like he was the one stabbed. His hands, shaking, move towards his chest, towards the pain, and comes away red with blood.

The stag is in front of him now. It stares at him, and Will looks back, unable to tear his gaze away. He opens his mouth to speak, but it is full of blood and makes no sound.

Will wakes up drowning.

 

 

 


End file.
